


Counting the turns

by fourfreedoms



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad races MotoGP. Nate's his crew chief. I don't know where I come up with these things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting the turns

There’s sweat running down his back and prickling into his eyes under his helmet. Rain’s coming down hard and it seeps down the back of his collar.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he says, revving his engine and waiting for his crew to realign the wheels.

Nate, his crew chief, claps him on the shoulder. “Calm down, you’re in good shape,” he says and Brad has the odd experience of hearing him through his communications helmet as well as directly before him. He nods his head and tries to smile. The last bolt is tightened and Nate grins at him, hair flattened to his forehead by water.

The crew all steps obediently back and out of the way as Brad roars up out of the pit, practically flying onto the track. He rejoins the other riders just as they hit the corner, accelerating hard going into the turn and decelerating as they come out. Brad loves this track because its longest straight is 1,068 meters and though it has almost more right turns than any other track, Brad would happily take them just for that straight.

He weaves past two riders for the Honda team when they hit the straight out of the 7th turn. He still can’t believe it’s raining in April in Qatar. His helmet keeps beading up with water. Only two more laps to go. He can hear Ray shouting inside his helmet—“watch out for Pramac! Niccolo Canepa’s going to fuck you up the butt!”—and Nate’s quiet exhortations for Ray to be quiet.

Brad breathes deep, hits the next corner smoothly, and feels like his bike is setting sail. Last lap. Brad gets this tingly feeling. He just knows he’s got it locked. When he hits the last straight, he floors the engine, zooming past Valentino Rossi and over the finish. Inside his helmet his crew erupts into cheers.

Brad grins, raising both arms in victory as the track announcer shouts first in Arabic, then in French, and finally in English, “Win for Ducati Marlboro! Debut racer Bradley Colbert roars over the finish line!”

It’s his first race of the season, of the whole fuckin’ class, and he won it!

*

That night after all the festivities have died down he lies with Nate and Ray next to the hotel pool, staring at the sky. It stopped raining hours ago, and now the air is heavy with humidity.

Brad’s known Ray forever, since he was first coming up the circuit. When he signed with Ducati, Ray was part of the package. But Nate’s new. A recent graduate of Stanford’s engineering program, he was hired right out of college by Ducati as a grease-monkey after he built some two-stroke that was projected to break all previous speed records. He’s constantly tooling with Brad’s engine.

Brad’s still in his suit—tie hanging loose around his neck and cuffs unbuttoned—from the celebratory party where Ducati trotted him out in front of everybody who mattered in the racing world. Ray and Nate got to hit the Qatari night scene while he was prodded to actually try smiling at people. Nate hauled Ray back after Brad’s cocktail party ended either because he was tired, or because he knew in some way that Brad needed company.

“Thank fucking Christ we’re heading to Jerez next, there are no fucking girls here!” Ray says, waving around a bottle of champagne. “I know you two celibate fuckheads don’t care that there isn’t any decent pussy around, but I do.”

Nate snorts and shifts on his deck chair, pillowing his head on his arm. He’s only in a v-neck and jeans, lounging lazily.

Ray answers this with, “Okay, I know you have an excuse, fairy boy, but Brad doesn’t.”

Brad grabs the champagne from him and takes a long swig. He sets the bottle down and then pauses, turning back to Nate. “Wait, you’re gay?”

Nate smiles and looks towards the sky. He doesn’t answer.

“Seriously, Brad! You didn’t know?” Ray chastises him, stealing the bottle back. “You’re so self-involved!”

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad replies without heat. He catches Nate’s eye and they share a smile. Nate’s eyelashes seem to glow in the poolside lights. Brad knows he’s staring, but he can’t look away. It shouldn’t change anything, but it does. “Ray?”

“What?” Ray replies.

Brad shoots him a look and says, “You drank all the champagne, go get us another bottle.”

Ray grumbles, but he struggles to his feet and stumbles back towards the hotel. Brad snickers.

Nate props himself up on his elbows and says, “Is this going to be a problem?”

Brad shakes his head, “No,” and reaches across to drag Nate’s deckchair in close.

“Ah, well, I won’t be your experiment,” Nate cautions.

Brad leans over both armrests and says, “Noted.” It’s easy with champagne and the win under his belt to press his lips to Nate’s mouth. Nate makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and reaches up to cup the back of Brad’s head. He touches his tongue to Brad’s lip hesitantly, only firming it when Brad leans more of his weight over the armrests so that they’re not catching him awkwardly in the ribs.

He likes kissing Nate. Brad doesn’t have a whole lot of time for the activity and dating gives him hives, but he thinks he could do this a lot. His mouth's a soft sweet crush against Brad’s, and he hauls Brad closer so that he can kiss him at just the right angle. Brad likes the way Nate thinks, rolling fully onto Nate’s chair so that he’s blanketing him, mouths coming together and apart with obscene sounds that go straight to his dick.

“Oh my god, seriously!” Ray shouts, startling them apart. He clunks down at the foot of Brad’s chair and flicks his knee. “You are so easy!” Brad rolls his eyes, ignoring him in favor of watching Nate carefully. Nate’s blushing, but he squeezes Brad’s fingers in his own. Ray shakes his head and thrusts the champagne bottle at Nate. “I can already see you’re going to be a bad influence! How many right turns at Circuito De Jerez?” he quizzes.

Brad replies, “Eight.”

“How many left turns?”

“Five.”

Ray points an accusing finger at him and says, “Hah! Your brain is already melting! Six!”

Brad raises his brows. “Five left turns, Ray, you’re thinking of Automodrome Brno!” Nate bursts out laughing and Brad grins with him, saying, “It's okay, retard! We still love you. Why don’t you leave the adults in peace?”


End file.
